


For the Good of the Force

by Darkhorse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Effectively imprisoned, M/M, Madeleine Era, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Slightly offstage rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt on the Les Mis Kink Meme; Javert is one of the Prefecture's best officers and one of the few omegas in the whole Paris police force. Some of his higher ups are 'looking out for the force's future' and start asking Javert if he has plans to breed. Javert, either because he's Javert and his pride won't let him or because of some previous experience with pregnancy (witnissing someone die in child birth, a misccarage, whatever will layer on the angst) says he never, ever plans to have a child. Eventually they say fuck it and abduct Javert.</p><p>The Prefecture induces Javert's heat and breed him with as many alphas as they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Offers

Javert stood on the landing outside the mayor's door and fervently wished himself back onto the street. He did not want to do this. His glove seemed to be made of lead rather than leather as he lifted his hand to thump on the door. The noise the wood made at contact seemed to reverberate, to echo, in his soul like the knoll of a death bell  
“Come in”  
The command from the mayor came too quickly for his liking, but as distracted as it sounded it was not to be disobeyed. His frantic impressing of memories, the weird pattern in the wood grain which had intrigued him from his very first day, was cut abruptly short. With a heavy heart he placed his hand on the door and let it swing open before him. The mayor was bent over his desk, writing hand flowing back and forth over a piece of paper. He drank in the sight, storing it in his mind. There was little chance he would ever be returning, even less chance that Madeleine, who had refused the Legion of Honour would come to Paris. This was good bye  
The mayor lifted his head after a moment, a kind smile appearing on his face, the same smile he greeted everyone with “Javert, I thought it might be you.”  
He bowed slightly “Monsieur le Maire.” He proffered the letter he'd received that morning but Madeleine waved it away.  
“So you are to return to Paris...”   
He started, and the mayor indicated an open letter at his side  
“I have also be informed, with a request for an appraisal of your conduct. You need not fear, it is wholly glowing, once I have found all the words.” The mayor gave a heavy sigh “I shall miss you, Javert, you have been a fine officer.”  
I shall miss you also Sir.” He knew it was the expected response, but imbued it with the deep sincerity he felt “Not many would behave as you have.”  
Madeleine smiled slightly, understanding what he was referring to. The striking of the Maire clock broke the silence that hung between them, and Javert found the various things he needed to do before leaving fly to the forefront of his brain once more. He put one foot back, giving a distinctly more formal parting bow than his previous. To his surprise Madeleine came out from behind his desk, offering his hand, he took it and shook it, ignoring the part of his mind which demanded he did not let go.  
“Good luck in Paris Javert, and should you ever need a career outside the police, there will be a place here for you.”  
He felt a lump rise in his throat, only trusting his voice for a simple “Thank you Monsieur", before turning away and exiting the office. He felt Madeleine’s eyes on him even after he had shut, the door, refused to glance behind him, up to the window as he crossed the square opposite the Maire. A break was demanded by his superior, his patron, and no matter what his heart clamored it had to be made. Best to make it clean and final, while he was at it.

Sleep did not come easy to him that night. He lay on his bed, in his small room, staring up at the rafters. This was the last night he'd spend in this bed, the last dinner Madame would press on him was already sitting in his stomach. He'd spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the town, visiting his favourite places, trying desperately to imprint the sights, scents and sounds into his memory. He'd been bitter about the posting when he'd arrived eighteen months before, too small, too insignificant, knowing he was sent out here because of his blood, and his damned biology. Yet it had become a home, a place he was happy. That was in no small amount due to the mayor, if Madeleine had been anyone else he would have been back to Paris in disgrace in two months, once he was discovered. But Madeleine hadn't cared that he was Omega, had actively helped him, buying him extra bolts for his door and sending him home if his Alpha nose picked up warning signals. He owed Madeleine, Jean, as if that particular subterfuge had escaped him, a lot.

Paris was certainly a busier posting that Montreuil-sur-Mer, but Javert found it boring. He missed his open invitation to turn up at the mayor's door if he ever wanted someone to talk to, missed the long games of chess and debates on justice which had often followed. He missed having a mental file on everyone in his area, able to instantaneously work out who was doing suspicious things when a crime occurred. He missed the friendly respect as opposed to fear, that most people showed him there, and, he realised, he missed Madame's cooking, her fair rent. Now it seemed as if he had lost a grade or two on his inspectorship, by moving back. The paperwork pile was higher too, and written in a crabby, near illegible clerks hand. Most nights, the last thing the mayor had said rang in his mind; _'should you ever need a career outside the police, there will be a place here for you' ___. It was tempting, sometimes, but then he’d remind himself he'd only been back here a few weeks, that he needed to settle in, and if he left, he'd cut himself off from his patron, and Chabouillet was the reason he was out of the gutter in the first place.

_Chabouillet was also the reason he was now stood outside the office of the Prefect, at ten pm at night, waiting to be admitted. On that thought the dark wood door was opened by the secretary. He entered, concealing his thumping heart, which picked up pace when he realised the other man had left the room, shutting the door behind him. Javert stared straight ahead into the dark room  
“Good evening Inspector.”  
The voice came out of the darkness, but he recognised it as the prefect's and bowed in the general direction of the speaker “Comte.”  
A dry chuckle “Polite even when uncertain, a very fine trait. There's a chair three paces in front of you Javert, do sit down.”  
He remained standing, sensing this might still be some kind of test, and straining his ears for any suspicious sounds. They heard only breathing, his own and one other's. A lamp flared up in the corner of his vision, he gave it a brief instinctive glance before roving his eyes over the room now reveal. A chair three steps forwards, as he'd been told, an ornate desk beyond, bookshelves on the walls, partly full of books, partly files. A soft rug on the floor. All fitting.  
A man came out from behind the lamp, revealing the countenance of the Prefect. He had a strange look on his face and Javert frowned, trying to decipher it. The fact the man was unfamiliar to him made it harder, as did the fact that the Prefect sat down quickly, raising his hands to steeple in front of his mouth  
“Now Javert, I wish to speak to you.”  
“I am at Monseigneur's command”  
The prefect nodded, then moved one hand to gesture to the chair “Sit please, this is not a formal reprimand.”  
“I would prefer to stand, Sir.”   
“As you will.” The prefect picked up a file laying to the side of the desk, Javert noted his service number on the front “I have been looking through your service record, it really is quite remarkable, more arrests and convictions in the seven years than some of our senior officers. You are to be congratulated Javert.”  
He inclined his head “My thanks, Monsieur.”  
The prefect flicked through the file “Your original attached officer reported your quick learning and I quote 'even quicker mind'. You exam results put you top of your classes.” The prefect seemed to speak to himself “Incredible, quite incredible.”  
Javert waited, all too aware of what made it so incredible. But for a freak of biological placing he would just be a very good officer to the service, rather than this specimen of amazement.  
“Javert, have you ever considered having children?”  
He blinked, certain he'd misheard “Sir?”  
The prefect gave him a tolerant, fatherly, smile “I asked if you have ever considered bearing children.”  
 _Crimson blood, all over the straw, splashing everywhere. Screams, ear-splitting screams of pain which echoed off the walls and dwindled to sickly whimpers, and them to silence._   
He forced the memory down, meeting the prefect's eyes “No Sir, I have not.”  
The prefect nodded “I'm not surprised, you seem totally devoted to your work.”  
“The service is my life Monsieur.” It was all he had, come to think of it, it separated him from his parents, from his former life, made him a personage rather than an animal.  
“And we must think of the service's future, mustn't we? You are the first, the only Omega to reach such heights, you are a biological wonder...If you were to breed, the officers of the future... crime would be impossible. France would be the envy of the world.”  
He went cold, feeling his skin begin to quiver “Monsieur... I- I cannot.”  
The prefect lent back in his chair, waving a hand airily “If you're worried about the commitment don't be, you can pick any alpha you want from the force, choose a different one each time if you like, and we'll take the child out of your life once it's had the first milk, you needn't fret over being tied down. How does that sound?”  
He shook his head, trying to conceal how he was trembling “I cannot.”  
The prefect sat up again, leaning forward “You don't have to decide now, I'll give you a week to think it over.”  
Javert bowed and made his exit with all the dignity he could muster._

_He was a child again, back in the cell. Quite suddenly one of the women doubled over, crying out in agony. His mother shoved him back into a corner and went to her, bending close. The woman screamed again and that was when he saw it. Blood, staining her rag-dress, pooling out on the straw. He'd never seen so much blood, so red, so alive. The woman was still screaming, shrieks of agony that hurt his ears, but he couldn't stop listening, they rang right through him. He shut his eyes then, hearing the other women, his mother amongst them, yelling for the turnkey, for someone to fetch a doctor. The doctor never came and gradually the woman's cries grew weaker, stopped altogether. He opened his eyes then, saw his mother close the girl's eyes, saw their cell-mates were weeping._

_He stared blindly up at the ceiling of his lodging room, feeling tears trickle down his cheeks. His mother had come to him then, had held him. He could still remember the tenseness of her body every muscle stretched to it's limit, and she'd murmured something, something he hadn't understood until it was too late  
“Please God, do not let this be his lot.”  
He wondered now, if she'd already known he was Omega, doomed to the heat cycles and bearing, just like Mathilde. That had been the poor girl's name, Mathilde._


	2. Final chance

The week passed too quickly and yet not quick enough. On his rounds in Saint Michel it seemed as though around every corner he found starving Omega's, cast off by their partners, either selling themselves or begging in order to provide for their children, all born out of bondlock. Their situation haunted him as it never had before, but for luck he could be one of their number. He still could be. During his spare time, his mind wrestled with itself, he knew that most Omegas would do anything to be offered what he was. A choice of partners, when they were normally the ones up for the picking, a life they could still call their own, rather than worn down by constant pressures of children. He should be proud, should be shaking the Prefect's hand, feeling smugly pleased. But always Mathilde's screams dogged him, the knowledge that not even the finest doctors and midwives could save some births. He still had a life to live. But what life was it if he was no longer an inspector? No longer a police officer. He was under no illusions, it was likely that his job, the continuation of respect from his colleagues, hung on this decision. And if it went against him, they would not help, none knew what he was here, assumed he was a Beta if not an Alpha, his pysical stance was the complete opposite of what an Omega was supposed to be. He had three inches height on the prefect for heavens sake, and that was discounting his boots. No, he was on his own here, as he had been for years, living on his wits, his instincts.

The office was darker than last time he'd entered, the two lamps lit casting more shadow than illumination. The prefect sat behind his desk, his expression serious, stern even. And behind him, an intimidating figure, stood the silhouette who could only be Chabouillet.  
“Have you considered our proposition, Javert?”  
No rank this time, he noted, a distinct reminder of his subordinate position in the service.  
“Yes, Monsieur le prefet.” He delivered the most formal form of the title, telling them he'd received the message loud and clear  
“And?”  
He bowed his head, though the prefect had not used an alpha tone on him, he had decided that non-challenging posture and politeness was best for this particular confrontation “With respect, I must decline”  
There was an indrawn breath, or was it two, but he fixed his eyes on the edge of the Prefect's desk, refusing to look up “And I also proffer my resignation, effective immediately.”  
“You do realise that you may set any price you wish on this Javert... Anything you want, you may have.” He was surprised to realise it was Chabouillet speaking.  
He bowed briefly, unpinning his badge of rank from his lapel as he did so. One brief step forward, nothing more, and badge and a creamy papered letter lay on the desk. Only now did he lift his eyes to look at the pair of sharp faces “My answer is still no,I want nothing to do with this sexual blackmail, as I see this to be. I have ever been a clean officer, and I will carry that reputation to my grave.”  
The prefect's eyes burned with fury, enough to scorch any lesser man. Chabouillet's was, by contrast unreadable, perfectly expressionless.   
“Dismiss!”  
In one act, one last act, as it turned out, of defiance, he came to attention, saluted, and marched out.

Had any person been about they would have seen the Inspector, inspector no longer, walking through the Parisian streets towards his lodgings with a spring in his step. Had they waited a few seconds, they would have seen a moving shadow, just behind him. But no-one was about and therefore no-one shouted a warning when a cudgel was raised. Javert barely realised that he'd been hit, before he blacked out.


	3. Taken

Fuzziness was his first understanding, and a sever pain in the back of his head. Screwing up his eyes he blinked rapidly until his sight cleared. Sunlight, a wooden panneled floor, a lump of wood that was possibly a bed-leg.  
“Are you aware?”  
He twisted his head to see Chabouillet standing over him. He tried to speak, and only then became aware that the roughness on his face was not dust or a hallucination, but a gag  
His patron nodded as he moved “I see that you are.”  
Where am I? Javert wanted to scream, What happened? But the gag would reduce that to animalistic grunts, he knew and if there was one thing he wasn’t it was an animal. He prayed his eyes would speak for him  
“You disgraced me, in front of the prefect. I told him you would do anything to help the service, told him you would surely acquiesce.” Chabouillet's eyes bored into Javert “Do you know how many lesser Omegas would give up everything for this? And you, the prefect, the one we singled out for such a blessing, throw it back into our face like soiled goods. It's not acceptable.”  
That still didn't answer what was going on, but he waited patiently, not flinching even as the pause stretched out. He knew Chabouillet was watching for weakness, and he wasn't going to show it.  
“We gave you a chance Javert, I put my reputation on the line to get you your positions dispite your, unfortunate, biology. Now you will repay the debt.”  
He lifted his eyes and nodded to someone behind Javert. Without any more warning his gag was removed and a cloth slapped over his mouth and nose. Instinct made him breath in, through both mouth and nose, he instantly regretted it. The scent was thick, cloying,chemical. It smelt of Omega. On the streets he'd heard talk that some doctors had found a chemical which sent Omegas into heat, not, he realised with a sick stomach, he was likely being dosed with it. And this was one attack couldn’t fend off.

The drug was sickeningly quick to work. He didn't know, or even care what dosage he'd been given, but it was enough to have him writhing, still bound, in full heat by mid-afternoon. No body waited with him while it took affect, he noticed, to avoid the responsibility of watching him die, to restrain their inclinations? He had no idea, was only aware that his loins burned to be mated and that his back muscles were screaming after being wrenched by his awkward wriggling to break free.   
When the door opened he had to grit his teeth to look around and see who it was. He expected Chabouillet, come to gloat and see if he was ready.  
Alpha, was the first thing that registered to his senses, the scent bouncing off his own. Big and burly, nearly his height if he wasn't on the ground, but far heavier and bulkier. He didn't get a chance to think of more, to identify the man he faced before weight pinned him to the hard floor. His human instincts told him to fight, to break free from the press. But they were overruled by pure biology, his body was in full-heat, the heat that only mating would ease.

He'd never been more grateful for being taught, by the police, ironies of all ironies, to block out torture. Afterwards, when it was over and he thought back years later, there was a blank spot in his memories from the pressure onwards. A blessing indeed.


	4. First and pattern for all

The nausea came over him in a deep wave. He felt the back of his mouth fill with saliva and swallowed it down, sitting defiantly straighter. He would not be sick. To be sick was to give in, to admit it. He shut his eyes, feeling his stomach churn. He would not be sick. He... would... not...be...sick. He swallowed again, forcing his food to stay down, ordering it to obey his will. It disobeyed.  
He could feel a cold sweat on his brow and the back of his neck as he sat back up again, taking a gulp of nearly cold tea to get the taste out of his mouth. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and die, he didn't want to live this life, to bear this child, this brat born of rape. Never before had he sympathised with other Omegas, those poor women he'd seen on the street, claiming ill-use and begging help. Now aside from his quarters, which was all of Chabouillet's spare town-house he cared to use, he was no better than them, perhaps even worse, for he was a prisoner, they were free to move.  
“Daj” He sobbed openly, knowing no-one would hear, or care if they did “Daj” He wanted her here,wanted her comfort as much as her skill with herbs. Bur for all he knew she was dead, and though he had her knowledge he had no way of procuring what he needed, he was almost certain that requests for Pennyroyal, even the more innocent appearing tansy would be refused. He would have to bear this child, and pray he died in doing so. It was his only hope of escape, even if some of his subordinates had noticed his absence he could assume they had been fobbed off with some excuse, or perhaps the truth of his life... that he was Omega and therefore had been demoted from his post. No one would really care, he was well aware that his stern demeanour had broken any attempts for people to be friends with him, they called him a man of stone behind his back. Only Madeleine would care, and he wasn't in Montreuil-sur-Mer now. No doubt the mayor would assume he was too busy, too urbanised to write a simple letter keeping him up-dated, that their beirf friendship, fellowship rather, had ended with that goodbye. He wouldn't be more wrong. But letter writing was one of the forbidden things, as if the prefect wanted to make him vanish completely off the earth, off the memories of those who had known him. He wouldn't be at all surprised, it would make an almost inevitable death in child-birth easier to cover up. He was not deluded, if he survived this one they would mate him again and again, beyond his breaking point, until his body finally failed. It was part of the reason he prayed, ever since he'd had his suspicions of the results of the mating, that he would die. He wasn't picky, either in his sleep or during the birth would suit... both were better than what awaited him.

\--------------------------------

The pains tore at his insides and he tasted blood in his mouth. His jaw was locked tight against cries of pain. This time he knew others would be listening, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him suffer. Instinct had curled him up in knotty ball, head tucked in and arms around his stomach. It didn't help much, if at all in reality, but he felt safe even as he cursed himself for a fool. The housekeeper had known something was up since early morning, she'd had a knowing look in her eyes as he made and remade his bed, trying to get it right. Oh it had been tidy from the first go round, but every time something had seemed out of place. He'd been nesting, readying for birth without even realising it. He'd snarled at the woman to go away and she'd nodded sympathetically as she'd backed off, he hadn't understood why until now.  
It hurt, worse than breaking his arm falling out of that tree when he was seven, worse than all the kicks and blows he'd received in his time on the streets. But he kept his silence, and his pride as he'd kept them all these years, now they were all he had.

It was long gone dark when it all ended. Had he been outwardly aware he might have known what time it was, the hall clock kept its hours well. All his senses were, however focused inwardly. He didn't need sight to to find his child once it was born, his ears were guide too much once the little hing drew in air. The darkness was blessing as he sat up in bed, cradling the small thing, feeling its features with one gentle finger. There was no confrontation, no sharp realisation that the babe bore the features of another as there would have been in daylight. There was simply a trusting weight in his arms, snuffling contentedly as it suckled its first meal. He'd sworn that there would be nothing between them, but under the concealing vale of night, what was the harm of crooning the scrap to sleep, drying it clean with a piece of old cloth and dropping a light kiss on its forehead as it slept. None would see, none could confront him later. They were safe, watched only by the stars.

\--------------------------------------

The boy slept soundly in his cradle. Three days old last night, and apart from his slightly more ironed out look, it didn't signify. Apart from his looks, and the growing place he held in his father's heart. Javert watched him sleep, aware he'd been cheated and made a liar by himself. He'd sworn there would be no attachment, but the boy's innocence drew him in, a reminder of what he'd only had briefly in his young life, before he realised his home was not a hotel, but a prison, before he realised he was shunned by all sides of society. His son would have better, would always know love. He pulled his eyes away reluctantly, returning his attention to the old account books he'd found buried in the back of the library. Chabouillet didn't know he had them, despite giving him free run, but Javert needed to make his brain turn and puzzle, he would have gone made the previous month if he hadn't found these and retrieved them with the help of a housemaid.  
Steps, in the marching pace of soldiers or show policemen, approached the door, he lifted his head and hastily shoved the books out of sight under piles of paper.   
The door was thrown open, in the corridor beyond he saw three footmen, and the two coachmen of the prefect’s secretary’s employment. And behind them, Chabouillet himself. They entered the room en masse and Javert found himself drawn to rise in politeness. Chabouillet looked him up and down, clearly assessing his health  
“I greatly regret you were unattended in your time of need Javert, you should have called. Should something have happened, requiring medical attention... I would never have forgiven myself.”  
The grief would seem genuine to an outsider, and Javert decided to play the game, for now “I preferred being on my own Monsieur, it was what I wanted.  
Chabouillet smiled, apparently fondly “Ah yes, the fickleness of a birthing will.” His voice hardened slightly “In future though, I wish you to inform someone of your situation, who-ever that may be.”  
Javert nodded, he would not win this fight  
“Your milk has changed?”  
The question was so abrupt, so sudden, and so wrongly placed that he was taken aback, made uncomfortable by the presence of the other men, betas and lower alphas all. This was not a conversation for public ears, it should take place only between bonded pairs, one solicitous and kind of his partner. His instincts began to ring alarm bells fit for the towers of Notre Dame, but he answered  
“Yes, two days ago.”  
“The child eats well?”  
The reference drew his eyes to the cradle as he answered with an affirmative, and the sight of one of the footmen standing on the other side, muscles tensed gave him three seconds warning of what was going to happen before it did. It wasn't enough.  
“Good”   
Out the corner of his eye Javert saw his ex-patron give a sharp nod, the nod of command. Even as instinct led him to rush forward, as his mind connected everything together to make the horrible picture one, the footman reached into the cradle and lifted out the swaddled baby, then turned, walking towards the open door  
“No!” Javert lunged, running headlong into one of the coachmen, who placed himself as a blockage. Had he been faster, had one more stride behind him, he might have bowled the shorter man over by shear impetus, as it was the liveried one kept his feet, barely. Howling like a wounded wolf Javert struck out wildly, aiming the blows only for pain of his opponent. Fair play was as dead as his freedom, he fought as he had fought when a gamine, for life and bread, no quarter given. Now he fought for his child.  
“My son...Give me my son!” He broke free of the first man and plunged forward. Kicking, stamping, lashing out with fists and fingers, heedless that he was matched by four in a tight knot. The foot man was through the door now.  
“THEIF.... KIDNAP, KIDNAP”, his scream rang out into the house, resounding off the rafters. In any other situation, the hue and cry would have brought help, but not here, not now.  
He felt his opponents start to give ground and followed. The door was shutting.  
They let him go and he sprang. A whip crashed into the side of his head, sharp enough to knock him down to the floor for a few seconds. He climbed to his feet, unaware of the pain, flinging himself to the door. It closed just as his hands connected with the handle  
The crash of the bar on the other side might as well have been a death knoll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daj is Romani for mother


	5. Part way

When Javert felt his foot slip and his body start to fall his first feeling was one of relief. He made no effort to save himself, no attempt to curl over and protect his vital organs, breaking his instincts with a cold mind. Perhaps he thought, as he was flung down the stairs like a rag doll by his own momentum, that the bearing and loss of two children, was all his lot was supposed too be. He certainly would have no complaints if he lost the one he carried now, or if his neck broke at one of the contacts with the hard stairs. He was dead and reborn twice over, perhaps this would be the end. He hoped, selfishly, that the archangels would not judge it as suicide, that someone would bother to send a note to Madeleine, the note which had sat on his desk since before his first confinement, waiting to be sent on the happening of his death.

His head connected with the wooden floor, and he lay still, unaware of the pains in his midriff.  
\---------------------------------------------

The maid did not believe her eyes at first. Oh it was common knowledge that the Master's permanent lodger was an ex-Inspector, over six-foot tall and intimidating. It was also servant knowledge that he was an Omega, unmated and yet breeding regularly. She'd gone to the housekeeper about that, surely the two didn't go together. The older woman had simply given her a sad look, which was supposed to answer everything, she assumed and changed the subject. Now she watched as the man put a foot wrong and dropped down the stairs. Fell was the wrong word, fell implied that he attempted to right himself. This man didn't, didn't even seem to notice he was falling.  
She screamed as he struck the floor and lay still.

The housekeeper came running from her room, the senior housemaid at her heels. They both checked as their eyes took in what was beyond her, but she was shocked to see no surprise on their eyes, only a great sorrow, a sadness that what had been creeping up had finally come. She broke down as they looked to her  
“He slipped, two stairs down from the top... He just tumbled, no grabbing, no cry.”  
The housekeeper took her into her arms, holding her gently, but with her eyes still on the prone man. When they parted she went to him, kneeling down and placing two fingers on his neck  
“He's alive”  
The head-housemaid sucked in a breath, her face bitter “Poor man.”  
Lauren looked from one to the other “Isn't it good that he's alive? Monsieur wouldn't exactly be please to find the Inspector dead when he gets home.”  
The housekeeper looked over “Good for us, perhaps, but not for him.”  
She frowned, completely confused, and was grateful when the housekeeper lost her air of mystery and became the efficient woman she generally knew.  
“Lauren, you're to support his head, Clarice, can you manage those long legs of his” She slapped her hand off on her apron, muttering, and gently lifted the Man's torso, as gently, Lauren though as if he'd been her child, or her husband. 

Once Javert was on his own bed, Madame Aubin dismissed the young girl, with instructions to go down to the kitchen and get some hot milk to drink from the cooks. The child looked quite ready to go, her face bloodless and her eyes huge, still no doubt seeing the Inspector falling. Once she was safely down stairs the older woman shut and locked the door, turning back to the prone form. Clarice, who had been bathing his forehead, pointed. About halfway down the bed, a crimson stain was gradually growing between the man's legs. Together, they glanced over to the bookcase in the corner, the bookcase which, unknown to most, had two stars engraved on it, and four dates, two to a star. For a while at least, there would be no more additions to the marks. Her eyes slid back to Javert's wan face, the closed eyes; they might even give the poor thing a rest after this. But somehow she doubted it... and the thought sickened her.


	6. To the last

The child, a girl this time, slept soundly in the crook of his arm. Javert had carved her star next the the others as soon as he felt fit to move after her birth, with her name and birth day underneath it. Mathilde, 4th June 1832. It joined twelve other stars etched it with a blunt knife. The names were unclear in his head, those twelve, which might have been thirteen. His children, put on his body by force, born in pain, and torn away more brutally yet. Today would, by the pattern, be the parting day. He looked down at her peaceful face, which concealed his own eyes beneath pretty lids, and his jaw set firm. They would not have this one, would not carve another wound into his chest to bleed forever.   
Still cradling her, he crossed the room and drew one of the books off the shelf. Behind sat a small bottle, innoculous in outward appearance, and the kind that no-one would look twice at. The maid had brought it several days before, it had cost half of the money he'd been keeping back to get her to do it. Then he'd given her the rest and a letter, a letter to be taken to Montreuil-sur-mer, by hand and delivered to Monsieur Madeleine. If he was not in the town, she was to search till she found him. And she was never to come back.

He checked the clock. It was nearly one beyond noon, the party were late. He almost wanted them to come, so he could end the anticipation which wracked his nerves. But all was prepared, he was ready for whenever they would come. He sat down in the rocker, facing the door, and waited.

Voices, feet coming up the stairs. He picked up the bottle and unstoppered it, careful not to let Mathilde drop as he did so. Cradling her close, he crooked his free arm, tilting so that the content of the bottle would trickle down his finger, the finger Mathilde was already used to sucking for comfort.  
Bang.  
The noise meant nothing to him, there had been gunshots all night, kept both of them awake. Even if it was a revolution, even if it came right to the door, perhaps into the house, what good would it do him. No-one even knew he existed any-more, and why would they care about an old, broken Omega who had once served the police as their best officer. He readied the Laudanum, offering a brief prayer that his impromptu baptism of the night before would hold true for his daughter, and that the last thing he would see in this life was the shocked face of his ex-patron, when he realised he'd driven a once wonderful officer to suicide.  
The footsteps, running, came closer.   
He jiggled Mathilde awake, seeing his own eyes staring up at him, so perfect, so pure. She, Omega though she was, would die unsullied, with the purity of youth still in her. He sat up straight, fixing his eyes on the door.  
It flew open  
“STOP.”


	7. French Revolution; turn and turn about

Javert found the bottle wrenched from his hand and flung across the room. Temper, broken for years, flared up in him and he glared at the cause. A young man, pale faced and dark haired, stared back at him  
“Would you kill your child Monsieur?”  
“Who are you?” His voice was cold, but he could feel a tendril of hope in his heart, they didn't look like Chabouillet's retainers.   
“French revolution”  
The speaker was not the boy he faced, but another who had just entered the room. He drew all eyes, his golden hair flying about his head like an aureole, red jacket and flag draped over his shoulders. He was a leader, and a mascot, and a possible martyr, rolled into one. But his eyes showed he was not ephemeral, they were steady and hard “And I might ask you the same question.”  
A lump rose in his throat. It was a challenge, the speakers stature said that... But that wasn't what his ears heard. The words were a blessing, a gift he'd never expected.  
The words felt strange on his tongue, yet how many times had he heard them from his mouth, or from others “I am Javert, formerly an Inspector of Police.”  
The boy, is he still a boy, or is he a man he wondered, nodded, scanning the room with authority “This is your home?”  
“It is where I live, but I have no home.” As evasive as a lawyer, oh the irony. The gold-haired man looked at him, puzzlement clear and strange on his face. Then his eyes rested on Mathilde, and some form of comprehension dawned  
“Where is your bond-mate?”  
He stared back “I have none.”  
One of the other students turned at the sound of feet coming up the stairs, going back to threshold and looking out “Marius, you're late.”  
“Very funny” came the reply, the voice another young man's “I was making sure Leblanc didn't get lost.” Two more entered the room, the one who had just spoken, and another, identified only by his footsteps.   
Javert tried to stand, on some old inclination triggered by the steps he heard, the steps he knew, but found his knees buckling, his head spinning.

When he woke up he was laying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. He tried to sit up, only to feel an hand holding him down, he started to struggle, remembering only that today was parting day, alling for his daughter “Thilde! Thilde!”  
“She's here.” The voice was a gentle tenor, and it sounded of rightness and order, and kindness. He had no idea what triggered those connections, making no effort to look at his companion for now. Mathilde was placed in his arms, she wriggled and grizzled, a satisfying indication that she really was there, that this wasn't just a sweet dream. Using his free hand, he loosed the ties at the top of his shirt, letting her feed. The gentle tugs on his chest as she nursed were the final signitures on his belief, and he tore his eyes away. He looked up, defying his biology just once, to face the man he knew was an Alpha.  
Familiar eyes looked back at him “Hello Javert.”  
“Jean Valjean.” His tongue, not quite as stunned as the rest of him, compounded the error. The other man did not look the least shocked, though Javert saw his eyes dart to the open door briefly.  
“How long did it take you to guess?”  
He had to think, Montreuil-sur-mer felt like it belonged to another century, another man's lifetime “About six months, I think, but I was never sure.”  
Valjean nodded slightly “I am glad of that” There was a long pause, then the old man, and he was old Javert realised, for he himself was fifty two, and Valjean had already been in Toulon for several years when he joined, spoke again “Will you turn me in now, as you have irrevocable proof, in my word?”  
Mathilde finished feeding and promptly fell asleep. Shifting his grip on her slightly allowed him to look down, gave him the excuse he needs to escape that kind gaze, to think. That was when it hit him, the old Javert would not have paused so, Mathilde or no Mathilde, the old Javert would have handcuffs, or rope if there were no cuffs, on this parole breaker's wrists before you could say Jean.  
“No.”Valjean sucked in a breath, and Javert wonders what figure he used to cut to make the man so nervous. He spared the other man the suspense “I am no longer an inspector, I have no authority to arrest anyone any more.”  
“Did they strip you of that too, the ones...”   
The old man trailed off and Javert silently adds ' that did this' to the end of the sentence  
“No, I resigned” The memory remains still clear in his head, the Prefects fury, Chabouillet's coldness. He lifted his head to meet Valjean's eyes again “I was planning to take you up on your offer”  
“Of the foremanship, I remember.” The eyes were misty “I remember watching each post coach, hoping that would be the one to bring you back to us. But you never came, you never wrote. Until yesterday morning”  
He knew his eyes lit up at that “Lauren found you?”  
Valjean nodded “That girl's got some wits, had the thought to check with people in the know whether a Madeleine was known in Pairs, she turned up at Rue Plumet completely out of breath and barely making sense, but the letter told me enough.” He glanced to the door “It's luck the barricade went well, I was able to give them the address as soon as we were well on the move.”  
Barricade? Then the golden haired boy's answer came back to him  
“there has been another Revolution?”  
Another nod “The king will flee, and the world is turning.” Valjean stopped abruptly, moving to politely shield Javert from the view of the student who now stood in the door way  
“Inspector, Enjolras wonders if you are fit to tell us what happened to you”  
He finished doing up his shirt before he answered “I am ready.”

He found it rather amusing to discover that the conferable took place down in the kitchens, with the staff all around. He told them everything, not sparing a detail even as the two medial students progressively blanched as the tale carried on. They wanted to know the life he had lived for the past eleven years, then let them know.  
There was silence for a long time when he finished, it seemed no-one had words to equal an apology, and nor should they. It wasn't their apology he wanted, it was Chabouillet's. In the pause, one of the students disappeared upstairs. They sat still, remaining quiet, until he returned holding a file of papers close to his chest.  
“The man never even tried to hide it.” He placed the file down and flipped it open. Official documents and daguerreotypes spilled out onto the table. Javert stared until a birth record caught his eye. The date was the same date on which his first child had been born. He snatched for it, surprised when a sheaf followed the sheet across the table. He flicked through, uncertain what he sort. At intervals there were reports on progress, and with each, a daguerreotype. He stared at them, seeing his child grow through the years, a childhood he'd missed and could never retrieve. When he'd finished the first he found each of the others being propelled, by order of birth date, into his hands. He drank what they told him with a wild hunger, little snatches of character coming through. But not one went by the name he'd given them, they'd all been changed, their official history being one of foundlings on a street. Nothing of the misery and pain he'd endured, of the drugs and rape he'd suffered to create them.  
\----

When Javert looked up, having read the final file, Valjean found himself flinching. That was the look he'd dreaded in Toulon, the man who had been a terror in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the man who by sheer personality had concealed his biology for over half his life. This he faced now was Javert.  
Combeferre, who had found the file, was the one who dared to speak. “What will you do now?”  
“Who's the prefect?”  
Valjean shrugged helplessly as the sharp eyes came to him, and everyone jumped when it was Marius who answered  
“Henri Gisquet.”  
Javert didn't nod his thanks, barely acknowledged the information at all. But he had the look of a man on the war path, as his eyes snapped to Marius “Your family have connections, I've heard of your grandfather.”  
“I'm not on good terms with him”   
But there was no dodging this pigeon, Javert was in charge now, no doubt about it “I don't care, get Chabouillet to the prefect's office.”   
Marius nearly bowed “What time should I ask grandfather to ask him.”  
“Tell him...” Javert paused, as if thinking, before he finished his sentence “Tell him ten 'o clock.”  
The inspector smiled then, and it was a terrible smile, the smile of a wolf who has his prey at bay.  
Valjean shuddered, the knowledge that no money, not even a pardon would put him in Chabouillet's shoes tonight.

There was a true smile on Javert's face when he turned up on the doorstep of Rue Plumet at the stroke of one the next morning.  
Valjean let him in, let him sit down and then stood there waiting. He stared at the fire for a while, delighting, savouring what had occurred. When he did speak, even he could hear the disbelief in his voice  
“Chabouillet is disgraced, he'll never hold an office again... The prefect offered me any post I wanted, any rank. He paid me every scrap of arrears pay I should have had, everything I would have earned in these last years, out of his own coffers, wrote the bank draft there and then.” He touched his breast pocket, reassured the paper was still there. “I'm a rich man... Stefan Javert, the basted son of a gypsy and a convict, practically a gentleman.”  
He felt Jean's hand settle on his shoulder, steady, firm. He covered it with his own, then looked up into the other man's face “Is your job offer still open?”  
Jean smiled “It never closed.”


End file.
